


and it's not gasoline

by ienablu



Series: open flames [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye questions Ward about how he started the fire. Ward promised Skye he would never lie to her, and the only answer he has is a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and it's not gasoline

**Author's Note:**

> Fic starts after 2.03, and runs concurrent with the series. I have not been able to come up with an exact timeline for s2, and so I played a bit loose with the timing.
> 
> Canon-levels of Skye/Ward, brief implication towards canon levels May/Ward.
> 
> Extended author notes [here](http://hayes-district.dreamwidth.org/4824.html).

The door to the vault scrapes open.

Skye comes down the stairs, each step slow, reluctant. She always tenses a bit when she sees him, as if bracing herself. She she masks it well, though, expression impassive.

Grant stands as she makes her way to the chair in front of Grant’s cell. He smiles at her, watches as she sits, crosses her legs. She doesn’t seem inclined to open the conversation, and so Grant says, “I was hoping you’d consider what I said.”

“This isn’t about that.” Her voice is flat. She’s not fidgeting, keeping unnaturally still. 

Grant sits down on the corner of his bed. He doesn’t know why she’s nervous, but he can still do what he can to put her at ease.  "What do you need information on? Or who?"

"You," Skye says.

"I don't like talking about myself," Grant says, with a hint of smile. It’s a risk. It had been a joke, one that she made, and he wants her to remember that, not what she found out soon after. But she doesn't react, and he tries, "But for you, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. No lies, I promise," he adds, softly.

"You were fourteen when you burned down your childhood home," she says. "And tried to kill your older brother."

Grant tenses at the mention of Christian, but he keeps his breathing even. “I was,” he agrees. He wonders if Skye will ask if he knew Christian was in the house. Everyone else has. And to everyone else, Grant’s reply has been _no, I did not_. It’s been part of him longer than John has. His palms feel warm and sweaty at the idea of finally breaking that cover. For Skye, he would, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to.

"How did you start the fire?"

It’s not the question he was expecting. Grant doesn't remember, not exactly. It’s been fifteen years. He had been so angry and so young and so hurt and so raw, burning with hatred of his family. He shakes his head, closes his eyes, tries to focus. John taught him compartmentalization, and Grant has spent years keeping _this_ compartment buried in the back of his mind. He remembers the press of smoke against him, the charred smell of the wooden frame burning. Yellow-orange flames licking up the side of the house, heat washing over him. He can still feel the residual warmth spread over him, if he thinks about it too long. He doesn’t remember the start of the fire, only the end. But Skye wants an answer, and Grant will do the best he can. How would he set a house on fire? "Lighter fluid, the bottom floor of the house. I wouldn't want Christian to know I was in the house, so I wouldn't go up to the second floor. Besides, once the flames were at the base of the house, there wouldn’t be as much need for an extra accelerator. Add a match, and the place goes up in flames."

Skye stares at him, expression blank. "You 'wouldn't' want Christian to know? Don't you mean 'I didn't'?"

"I don't remember," Grant says. "I was young, and I was angry, and I don't remember how I set the house on fire, I'm just giving you what I think I would have done.” He questions the statement as soon as he says it – a lot of that information was John’s first. "Why? What is this about?"

It comes out a bit desperate, a bit snappish, and Skye looks surprised for a moment, before smoothing it back over. "Garrett pulled the report on your arson when he pulled you from juvie. I was able to recover them, and look them over. The report was concerned, because there was no use of any accelerant, even though the way the flames spread meant something accelerated the flames.”

Grant stares at her, trying to figure what she’s getting at. "It wouldn't be the first time John would alter a file to suit him," he says, finally. Grant doesn't know how altering his arson police file would suit John – and Grant berates himself for slipping on the name – but that's not what Skye wants to know, so it's not important right now. His shoulders have hunched in, and he leans back, straightening up, opening himself up. "If you want, I can give you all the files I know he altered. I don't know how well I'll remember the originals, but I can try. Do you want information on anyone in specific?"

Skye doesn't reply. She stares at him for a moment, then pushes herself to her feet, and starts to the stairs.

Grant stands a beat after she does. "Skye," he says, as she reaches the bottom step. "What do you want to know? I can tell you–"

She raises up the data pad, and pushes a button. The wall doesn't go white, but hee knows she's muted him.

 

x x x

 

He lies in bed later that night. There are only so many ways to start a fire.

How did he set fire to his house?

 

x x x

 

Grant wakes up at 5:30. He goes through his morning drills. He didn’t sleep well. Not that he often does sleep _well_ , but he’s restless in a different way.

He knows what they’re trying to do. It’s a torture technique, and one he’s familiar with. Suggest a concept, plant a seed. Ward doesn’t think Skye would do it. Coulson probably would.

Knowing it’s the game they’re playing doesn’t make it any easier to ignore.

Days pass. 

Skye doesn’t come down.

Another form of torture. Find out what your prisoner wants. Deny them. Give your prisoner what they want. Deny them again. Your prisoner is that much more likely to give you what you want.

Grant will play along, and give them whatever they want, whatever Skye asks for.

She returns, and she asks for Grant’s source for Skye’s father, for information about John writing on the walls. Neither are information Grant’s happy to give her, and neither are information she’s happy to receive. 

Skye gets up, and she waits a few moments, staring at Grant. She’s never happy when she comes to visit him, but something – Raina, her father, the writing – has made her unhappier still. “And did you figure it out yet?” she asks.

“Figure what out?” Grant goes through their conversation today, their conversations in the past, hoping for a reprieve of the question that’s been in the back of his mind the past few days.

"How did you set the fire?"

Grant tenses. "I don't know," he says.

Skye turns and walks back towards the stairs.

“I knew Christian was in the house,” Grant tells her. It’s not what she wants to know, but it seems important, and it seems important that she knows. He knew Christian was in the house when he set the fire, he wanted his family to burn the way he burned. He had tried to time it so his parents would still be home, not just Christian home from college. But his parents were at a fundraising brunch, and Grant settled for just Christian.

This makes him a horrible person, unredeemable, a monster, he knows that. 

He doesn’t know how he started the fire.

 

x x x

 

How could he have set the fire?

There's an answer itching at the back of his mind.

 _No_ , Grant thinks. It's speculation, it's wild and unwieldy and there's no way...

Grant stares down at his hands, mind racing.

How could he have set that fire?

 

x x x

 

"Ward," comes Skye's voice. It sounds distant.

He can’t tear his gaze away from the flames rising from his hands. "I always thought that Raina seemed to like me," he says. "I wonder if she has a type."

"Ward," Skye repeats.

He looks at her, gaze finally catching onto hers. It is far more difficult than it should be– usually he defaults to her, and can look nowhere else but at her. But he feels lightheaded and dizzy and there's something wrong.

"Ward, can you stop it?" Skye’s face is stony, as are the faces of the SHIELD agents behind her, all with weapons raised.

"I don't know," Grant says. There’s a lot he doesn’t know. All he knows right now is that he would rather Christian die by fire than himself, but that’s not going to happen. There’s smoke filling his cell and that might explain it. Lack of oxygen.

He's dying of asphyxiation.

Fitz would probably laugh, if he knew. He would deserve that laugh, too.

But Fitz doesn’t know and can’t laugh, and so Grant does it for him.

 

x x x

 

Grant slowly returns to consciousness. He’s not awake and not asleep and there’s something wrong. He tries to assess the situation, details slowly filtering in. There are handcuffs around his wrists, his ankles. His throat burns. He’s on a mattress, different from the one in his cell. He’s attached to medical equipment. There are footsteps, and they sound like Simmons. His hands are cold.

He can control–

The machines he’s hooked up to start going off.

There’s a pinprick against his arm, and he opens his eyes, jerking immediately awake.

Simmons is standing over him. “Mild sedative,” she explains, words clipped.

“Your hair is shorter,” he replies. His throat feels rough. He doesn’t know why he’s here.

Her expression hardens. She walks away, and returns a moment later, clipboard in hand. Her knuckles are white. "How are you feeling?" she asks. Her voice is entirely clinical.

Cold, Grant thinks. "Confused," he says, after a moment.

She looks at him, considering, for a moment. "What are you confused about?"

"I don't know why I'm here. How long have I been here?" Panic bubbles in his chest, even though he has spent the past decade slowly cultivating panic out. John rebuilt him back up as he wanted, but Grant had his say in it too.

Simmons doesn’t reply, only jots a few things down on her clipboard.

Grant turns back to look at the ceiling. Why is he here. Why is he here? He closes his eyes, and thinks of Skye. The thought of Skye brings him through fogs more often than anything else in his life.

Although this past one wasn't fog, but smoke.

He opens his eyes again. He looks down at his hand. It was on fire last time he saw it. His entire body may have been on fire. He doesn’t know. There are no burns.

"We injected you with an adrenaline inhibitor. If you're thinking about using your powers, you won't be able to."

"I didn't know I had them," Grant says. His voice comes out detached, oddly casual against the horror of the statement. His fingertips feel cold. He stares at them some more. His hands look strange in the lighting of the medical bay. He feels sick. "It doesn't seem possible."

"Apparently it is," she replies. She moves over to a counter, distancing herself from him.

He watches her, then turns his gaze back to the ceiling. It will probably be easier for her. "So what happens now?" he asks. "How long will the inhibitor work?"

"It should wear off in four to six hours. I would imagine four hours for you, perhaps– your metabolism was quite speedy, with your prior physicals, but your prolonged imprisonment may have had an adverse effect, we don't quite know for certain yet. We'll monitor you, and inject you again when the time comes, while I look into a more permanent slow-release option."

"How did you stop me?" Grant asks.

She looks over at him, brow furrowing.

"I couldn't stop the fire. How did you?"

Her mouth thins. "That is not medically relevant."

Grant thinks of all the ways that he could be stopped. There are not many. But his head is pounding, his mouth is dry, and thoughts keep crashing into each other, talking over each other. "An ICER?" he asks. It was how they stopped Peterson.

Simmons doesn’t reply.

"How long am I going to be in handcuffs?" he asks, next.

"As long as I feel like I am not safe around you," Simmons says, her voice going high and brittle.

Grant winces. He deserves it.

"You deserve far worse," she corrects, icily. She sets her clipboard down. "You are awake, and showing no ill after effects. I am going to get Coulson, and you can return to your cell."

There's not really anything Grant can do to argue, nor would he have any reason to.

He just lies in the bed, moving as Coulson directs him to. The ankle shackles are taken off, his hands cuffed together instead of to the side of the bed. The tiles of the floor are cold against his feet, and he wonders how long until the cold wears off. The four person security detail is unnecessary; but the sedative is making everything hazy, and he thinks he needs the escort back to his cell.

 

x x x

 

Grant sleeps, on and off, losing track of time, of everything. The sedative muddles his thoughts, and everything except the fact that he can create fires. But even that makes his head ache, because he can create fires and he has never known it.

His thoughts gain clarity as the sedative wears off, and he lies in bed and thinks. Not about this power buried inside him, but how to work with it.

Grant doesn’t feel the inhibitor wear off, but he hears the sound of the vault door opening. He stands up, and waits. 

It’s Trip, flanked by two other SHIELD agents.

“I knew not to expect Simmons,” Grant says, and Trip’s glare intensifies. “I was not expecting you.”

“I have medical training and combat training.” Trip gives him a tight smile. “Coulson wants to cover all the bases.”

Grant nods. He's not entirely surprised about that. "Did Coulson tell you how long he was planning on keeping me on inhibitors, then?”

"Indefinitely would be my guess," Trip says.

"If Coulson wants to cover all the bases, I'm sure he's thought it through, though," Grant says. "Best to keep it under wraps for now, to make sure I don't do anything... _hasty_ , but after that, he's going to have me train, eventually."

Trip stares Ward down. "And why would he do that?"

"Would it be better for everyone involved if I didn't know how to control my powers?" Grant takes a step towards the barrier. Of everyone, Trip should understand Grant the best. They’re both specialists, Kevlar, same training from John. Grant knows all that Trip is capable of, and Trip must know all that Grant is capable of. "I'm not going to stay down here forever. One way or another, I am getting out of here, and it would be best for everyone involved if that involved me helping you all out. And there's no way I can be a help to anyone if I don't know how to control this. And from all the reports from the Fridge, there is a lot of time and energy needed to control any powers– my skills may provide me an advantage, but only if I can hone them. I need to learn to control them, for my safety, and the safety of everyone in this base.” Grant looks up to the camera in the corner. “Coulson must know that."

Trip’s mouth thins. "Or we can just keep shooting you up with an adrenaline inhibitor. It is the most potent way to prevent powers that we have," he says.

Something is off.

After a moment, Grant figures out what it is.

"Garrett had other ways of controlling those who are Gifted," Grant says. "He knew a lot of the scientists at the Fridge, and they worked on compounds they didn't exactly share with the rest of the class."

“You have information on them?"

Grant wants to ask for Skye. It’s the only bargaining chip he has, if he talks to anyone else, he could lose it. But at the same time, he does want to help, and wants to show he can cooperate. As well, he doesn’t want to think of Skye as a bargaining chip, doesn’t want her to think the same of him. He shakes his head. "I'm a specialist, Trip, and specialist only. I’ve learned the basics I need to know with biochem to get me through my missions, but I wouldn't know the first thing about how to reverse engineer whatever chemicals Garrett came up with. Raina might. She was the one who came up with the second GH-325 that Garrett used."

"And do you know where Raina is?"

Grant shakes his head again. "No, I have no way of contacting her, and I hardly think she would be all that inclined in speaking with me, since I can't give her what she wants. But Skye might be able to find her, and Raina might listen to her."

Trip stares him down. “Step back, Ward."

Grant takes a step back.

"Back farther."

He raises his hands, and takes three more steps back.

One of the agents taps at a datapad to let the barrier down.

Contingency plans create themselves. There are thirteen steps out of Vault D. He could take out Trip and the two agents. Take their weapons, make his way through the base. He doesn’t know where the base is, but it’s not remote, it can’t be, and he should be able to gain his bearings outside, disappear into civilization.

Ward closes his eyes, and blocks the thoughts out.

He’s not staying in here forever, but he’s staying in here a little while longer.

There’s a pick to his inner elbow, and Ward flinches. He waits patiently, until he feels the withdrawal of the needle. He opens his eyes, watches as the medical officer covers the puncture wound with a cotton ball and a stretch of tape to keep it in place. ***

"How long until Simmons will be able to figure out a slow-release adrenaline inhibitor?" he asks, because being injected every few hours will get old very soon.

"She's working on it," Trip says. "Any medical details to pass along?"

The back of Grant's throat feels dry, and he feels slightly disconnected from his body. "Vitals normal," is what he says.

Trip nods, sharply, then turns on his heel.

"Tell Skye,” Grant starts, “when she comes to talk about Raina, to bring a candle with her.”

Trip turns back around. “Not gonna happen. Why would she bring what is basically a platform for your dangerous, under-developed power?"

"I won't hurt her.”

“I don’t believe you.”

 

x x x

 

Four, eight, twelve, sixteen hours pass.

It’s Trip every time.

Grant feels like apologizing, though he doesn’t know why. He can’t apologize for what he needs to, and he doesn’t know what he’d say about everything else.

Twenty, twenty-four.

 

x x x

 

Skye comes back.

With her, she brings a tall, white, tapered candle, in a plain metal candleholder.

“Thank you,” Grant tells her.

She sets it down on the chair. She doesn’t reply, only takes slow steps back, until she's up against the stairs leading up out of the cell.

Grant's throat feels tight, and he doesn't know why. He doesn't know if it's her shy sign of trust, and what that could represent (lead to), or if it's the candle sitting unlit on the chair.

He has thought about powers before, thought about going up against those who are Gifted, but it's always been a vague thought, he's never put too much thought into how the powers work, how to use them, where they come from.

He looks at the candle, and thinks, _Light_.

The candle does not light itself.

He looks further at the wick, and thinks, _Light_.

The candle does not light itself.

He's thinking nothing, very carefully keeping his mind blank, as he always does during a fight (as he didn't when he shot Nash), and he thinks of fire in the back of his mind. His fingertips are warmer than the rest of him. He thinks on that tingle, and thinks, _Light_.

Skye startles, pressing back further against the stairs.

The candle has not lit, but his hands are instead covered in a thin layer of flames. "Huh," he says, bringing his hand up to look at it. "Damn," he adds a moment later. He shakes his hand, almost trying to flick the flames off.

One small flame seems to fly towards the barrier, where it hits the yellowed-material and fizzles out.

"I should really figure out how to stop this," Grant says.

Skye is looking at him, almost in fear.

It makes the bottom of Grant's stomach drop out. He just stands there, looking at the flame on his hand. He takes a deep breath in, the flame flickering slightly higher, before he holds his breath. He's a trained specialist, he should be able to hold his breath long enough to smother the fire.

After a minute, the flame has slowly disappeared, and Grant takes in a deep breath. He wonders, for a moment, if it might reignite the flame, but his hand stays the same as it is. He looks up at Skye, still pressed against the stairs. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he tells her. After a beat, he asks, “Do you believe me?”

"What were you thinking?" Skye asks.

It stings. "I just thought of fire," Grant says. He looks at the candle, and images creep into the back of his mind (fires, the fire he lit to burn down his house, the fires he made when he was alone in the woods that Garrett left him in), but the candle stays at it is. His hands feel warm, but he thinks, _No._

His hands do not light on fire, the candle does not light on fire.

"I," Grant starts, before he starts breathing a bit more heavily. "I think I'm going to pass out."

 

x x x

 

When Grant returns to consciousness, Skye is no longer in the cell. Coulson has taken the place of the candle on the chair, and there are four SHIELD agents in an arc around him.

The candle is on the floor, halfway between the barrier and Coulson.

"How are you feeling?" Coulson asks.

Grant blinks a few times. His vision keeps swimming. There's a tug at the back of his throat, and he just takes a few even breathes.

Coulson frowns. "I was hoping you had gotten past your insistence to only speak to Skye."

"Nauseous," Grant just says, and it comes out tight.

"Ah."

Silent minutes passes, as Grant focuses on his breathing, and his breathing alone. The feeling finally fades. He lets out a shaky breath.

"Better?"

Grant nods, still wanting to give himself a moment before speaking.

"You were right," Coulson says, a few moments later.

Grant tries not to let the surprise register on his face, but given Coulson's slight smile, he doesn't quite manage.

"You are going to find a way to manifest your power, and it would be better if we could do it in a controlled environment. Full surveillance, all your vitals monitored.”

"Still with Trip, or did you bring on more med staff on board?"

Coulson raises an eyebrow.

"I'm pretty sure Simmons won't want to work with me."

"She doesn't," Coulson says, simply. "She hates you. Most of us here do. And for good reason."

Grant nods. He doesn't ask who turned the _everyone_ to _most of us_ , because he doesn't want Coulson to dash the hope he's formed. From the way the lines around Coulson’s eyes have tightened, he caught his slip-up.

"But you are necessary. We want to keep your powers completely unknown, because you've explained HYDRA's stance on Gifted. It's a miracle they never found out from Garrett, but we'll take what works in our favor when we can."

Grant nods.

Coulson stares Grant down. "You are a prisoner here. You’ve lied to and betrayed us all. But these are your powers. Although you are working for us, with us, I want you to have some say in the matter regarding how you want to proceed."

"I want to work with May."

Silence meets Grant’s request.

"Not going to happen," Coulson says, eventually. “I was thinking more, a specific time. Any requirements you wanted to set down.”

“I don’t really have any other claims on time. Whenever works for May, works for me.”

Coulson doesn’t say anything else; only gets to his feet, buttons his jacket, and walks off.

 

x x x

 

Grant blinks awake at 5:30 in the morning. He stands to start his morning drills, and he sees that May is sitting in the chair. He blinks again, and sits back down. "Morning," he says, just to see how she’ll reply.

"Morning," May replies. It doesn’t sound entirely personal, but it’s not cold and detached. She’s still furious with him, she has to be, but she’s still civil.

Grant can work with that. "I didn't expect that you would actually show up. Didn’t think that Coulson would let you down here."

"It's the best option for everyone involved," she replies. "I understand your reasoning. You made the right choice."

Grant tilts his head to the side, and waits for her to continue.

"You promised that you would never hurt Skye. She couldn't be the one to stay with you while you trained, then. Your fear of hurting her limited your powers." May smiles. "You don't care about me."

Grant wonders, sometimes. "I don't feel compelled to protect you," he offers.

May still bristles at that. "Skye doesn't need your protection."

"And you don't need any."

May nods. "Light the candle," she says.

"I don't know how," Grant says, and it's freeing to be able to admit that. He and May never talked. He wonders if he should have.

"I don't care," she replies. "Light the candle."

Grant stands up, and moves to just in front of the inertial barrier – just before where it starts to glow and hum and _warn_ – and sits down on the floor.

May stands up, picks up the candle and places it just before the barrier. She mirrors Grant, sitting down on the other side of candle.

Grant sets his chin on his knuckles and his elbows on his knees, curious to see if she’ll mimic the motion.

She doesn’t.

He stares at the candle.

John had made a few jokes about Grant being a pyro, always shooting him a wide smile, and in retrospect it makes Grant’s stomach clench painfully. 

John said Grant’s quartermaster was an old army buddy of his. Grant had taken John at his word. He had trusted John.

 _You shouldn’t._ John had told him this, from day one. _Don’t trust anyone, ever. Not even me._

Grant should trust no one. No one but himself, but everything he thought he knew about himself has crashed down around him. He doesn’t know who he is without John, he doesn’t know how to light the candle, he doesn’t know...

He knows he can light the candle, now he just needs to figure out how.

 

x x x

 

May brings a new candle with her for the following sessions. She doesn’t talk to him, but to tell him to light the candle.

Through three sessions, he gets his palms to get uncomfortably warm, generate a small flame up the side of his hand, but never light the candle.

 

x x x

 

Their fifth session together, the door to the vault slams open, and Skye makes her way down the stairs. It’s far more hurried than he’s seen.

Grant is on his feet instantly. “Skye.” It’s been a week since he saw her last. “Are you alright?”

"Skye?" May asks, as she slowly rises to her feet. "I told you not to interrupt."

"Coulson ordered me to," Skye says.

Her eyebrows knit together. "That serious?"

"What's wrong?" Grant asks.

Skye turns back to him. "I need everything you know about Baron von Strucker."

That answers a lot of Grant’s questions. It also puts him in a position where he has a better idea of what to do. (Five two-hour long sessions with May, all the hours in between, and he still doesn’t have the first clue on how to light the candle.) "I know a lot about Baron von Strucker. You'll need to be a bit more specific."

"We don't have time for this," Skye snaps. "Whatever information you have, spill it all, now."

Grant takes a deep breath in, and starts rattling off all the information he knows, from major planned power plays to the small facts that there's a rumor he may be allergic to shellfish. She asks follow-up questions, he answers as best as he can.

"You need heavy power if you’re going to go after von Strucker," Grant concludes, when the questions have wound down. "Let me come with you," he says.

"No," May says.

"I have HYDRA's perspective on him, I'll be able to get you access, I can be of use–"

"No," May interrupts, harsher.

Grant straightens up. "Is this because of my powers? Because even if I can't control them, I am still a specialist and–"

The wall goes white.

"May," Grant says, raising his voice. "Skye," he tries. "Let me go with you, I can help you out." His voice hits a yell as he repeats, "Skye!"

The white wall disappears, but before Grant can be satisfied with the fact, he sees that neither May or Skye are still in the room.

"Fuck," Grant says, because there is no reason not to. He closes his eyes, and repeats, louder, “ _Fuck_.”

There’s a whisper of sound.

Grant opens his eyes.

All five candles are lit.

 

x x x

 

"You provided me the push I needed," Grant says, as she steps off the stairs.

May raises an eyebrow.

Grant nods down at the candles, still burning brightly.

"Impressive start," May says, damning him with faint praise. She only sits after he sits, and she stares at him, waiting.

Grant had considered the best way to approach her, as he spent hours staring at the five flames, the best way to navigate her. He doesn’t feel like playing any games, though. "I can help you out," he says, dropping all pretenses of appearing casual. "Let me go with you on missions, I promise you, I have changed, I am not working with HYDRA, I am not loyal to HYDRA, I can help you out–"

"Later."

Grant's heart stutters. A part of him wasn't actually expecting May to secede. He considers her a moment. "Really?" he asks, disbelief evident, regretting it a moment later.

May almost smiling. She nods.

"You promise?"

"Would you believe me if I did?"

Not really. "Promise me anyways."

“I promise.” A beat, and she says, “Now extinguish the fire.”

 

x x x

 

Ward has developed a basic control of his powers – flames on, flames off, his hands, the candles – and perhaps in control of himself for the first time in his life – when Skye comes to talk to him about Christian.

 

x x x

 

Grant was prepared for Coulson to come down. He planned his argument for Coulson. _You can’t trust Christian_ –

May comes down.

His rage against Christian dissipates. "You promised me," Grant says, which is perhaps the most childish thing he could say, but he's burning with regret and anger and his hands are so, so warm.

"I lied," May replies. "I thought you would be familiar with how that goes."

It cuts, and Grant has bared too many of them. "I thought we were rebuilding trust," he says. "I have done everything that I can to try and salvage this situation. I have been giving you of HYDRA's intel, everything I told Skye has been cleared, I have not given you one bad piece of intel, I am doing everything I can–"

"I know," May says, dismissively. "We kept you because you were of use. But right now, Christian is of more use."

May is exact with her words.

This is about his powers. “I can control–”

“It doesn’t matter. You are not of use to us. Your brother is.”

“May, listen to me–”

The door to the vault opens, and Trip jogs down a few steps. “We’ve got a problem,” he says.

“May–”

The barrier goes up.

 

x x x

 

It’s hours later when the barrier fades.

This time it is Coulson on the other side. “Time to go,” he says.

There are agents flooding the room. They’re expecting him to fight.

He wants to.

He doesn’t.

The barrier goes down.

“We’re giving you a sedative with the inhibitor,” Trip tells him.

He takes both injections, and waits them both out. His metabolism has increased.

It’s easy enough to take out the detail, escape from their custody.

SHIELD finds out, follows him, but doesn’t approach. Grant is grateful. He leaves Bakshi as a gift, an olive branch of sorts. He likes the idea that they could have a working relationship, no ill will.

Besides, it will keep SHIELD busy for a while. Grant has some unfinished business to attend to.

 

x x x

 

_You were fourteen when you burned down your childhood home, and tried to kill your older brother._

Grant gets what he needs from Christian. It’s a euphoria he’s never felt – there were times when he doubted himself, what happened at the well. Christian’s confession is genuine, Grant knows. His apology wasn’t as genuine, nor were his parents’ apologies, but Grant didn’t expect anything else.

He leaves the door open as he walks out of the house, and walks down the wooden porch, down the gravel driveway. At the end of the driveway, he turns back around, stares up at his childhood summer home.

_How did you start the fire?_

_Like this_ , Grant thinks, and the house goes up in flames.


End file.
